Death of an Elgin Marble (12 page)

Tristram Stanhope pushed his plate away.

‘Philhellenes all? I must confess I am among their number. I always have been. Tell me, Lord Powerscourt, do you not have a favourite place in the past? A time when you would rather have been alive than in the present?’

Powerscourt laughed. ‘Well, I’ve never really thought about it. I’m very fond of the old Greeks, you know. But if I had to choose, I think I’d rather go back to Renaissance Florence. The first sight of Brunelleschi’s Dome perhaps? Michelangelo’s
David
on display in the Piazza? Those divine Botticelli Madonnas gracing the altars and the side chapels of the churches? Or maybe late-eighteenth-century England? I could have gone to the impeachment of Warren Hastings and listened to Edmund Burke denouncing the evils of the French Revolution in the House of Commons.’

‘Believe me, there are more of us Philhellenes than you might imagine, Lord Powerscourt. Remember how many generations of English public schoolboys have been brought up on the Classics. Think too of the Americans who populate the novels of Henry James, captivated by Florence and Venice, of course, but also of the tribute they paid to the ancient Greeks. It was, after all, the rediscovery of many ancient manuscripts that led to the birth of the Renaissance. For many, the Classics will have been the drudgery of the declensions, the horrors of the Greek optative mood or the terror of the Latin unseen. But for others their eyes will have been opened. The contribution of the Greeks to Western thought – the playwrights, the philosophers, the historians are supreme. They invented most of those disciplines after all. Think of the Grand Tour, an orgy of wine, women and song for many, of course, but for others it will have been a labour of love, travelling the ancient world, often for years, collecting Greek and Roman statues to bring home to their great houses like the Cokes in Holkham Hall up in Norfolk, its tribune elegantly adorned with the sculptures of antiquity. Then there is the light, so clear, so perfect on a summer’s day, so intense yet so delicate. England, by comparison, is a land in shadow. Think of the beauty of those ancient statues. Nobody has surpassed the grace and the glory of Praxiteles’ statue of Hermes at Olympia. You mention the late eighteenth century, Lord Powerscourt. If I had been alive then, I would have built a garden like the ones at Stowe or Stourhead, festooned with temples to the ancient gods, and adorned my house with ancient statues like those in the Antique Passage and all over the grounds at Castle Howard.’

Stanhope spoke with rare passion. Powerscourt felt sure it wasn’t just the quincy.

‘Fanatics, Mr Stanhope? Would that be a fair description of you Philhellenes?’

The Head of Greek and Roman Antiquities finished his glass. ‘Maybe I could put it slightly differently, Lord Powerscourt. Maybe it’s like an illness. Being a Philhellene is rather like catching a very severe dose of a virus called love of ancient Greece, Phil-Hellenism in its ancient form. At its most extreme, yes, I suppose you could call us fanatics.’

‘One last question, please,’ said Powerscourt as the waiters cleared away the remains of their lunch. ‘How difficult would it be to move the Caryatid and replace her with the substitute one currently on show?’

‘Well,’ said Stanhope, checking the bottom of his glass rather sadly, ‘it’s easier than you might think. Those porters are moving statues about all the time, many of them bigger and heavier than the Caryatid. Some of the Egyptians on parade are far heavier but they still get taken away for cleaning and things when required. Some of the porters are called in by outside firms who have to move great lumps of sculpture from place to place. They’re highly skilled. Occasionally they ask for outside help if they’re not sure how to shift something. So I don’t think moving them would be much of a problem.’

Early the following morning Powerscourt was greeted by Leith, Rosebery’s train-obsessed butler, as he called on his master in Belgrave Square.

‘Good morning, Leith, I trust you are keeping well? And thank you for your recent assistance with the Italian trip. Much obliged.’

‘Only sorry, my lord, that I was unable to provide the relevant information for the return journey. My apologies.’

Leith glided away like a train going downhill to his lair halfway down the basement stairs where his records were kept and the train timetables of Europe sat in neat rows on his shelves.

Rosebery was a former Foreign Secretary and Prime Minister, his political career marred by a fondness for resigning that was almost greater than his love of high office. He was famous for having fulfilled the three ambitions he had set himself as a young man: to marry an heiress, to become Prime Minister and to own a horse that won the Derby. Many said he had reached his objectives too early, though few would have doubted that his life was severely damaged by the early death of his wife, the heiress Hannah Rothschild. Rosebery had been a friend of the Powerscourt family for years, with a paternal interest in Lady Lucy.

‘I’m trying to sell a horse, Powerscourt. Only thing is, nobody seems to want to buy the bloody thing.’ Rosebery was waving a report from his bloodstock agent in Newmarket in the air.

‘Animal too expensive, Rosebery? Price not right perhaps?’

‘To hell with the price, Powerscourt, the beast is too slow, that’s the problem. Entered in seven races, never placed higher than seventh. You’d think that with a name like Imperial Spirit the creature could do better than that. Never mind. How can I be of assistance this morning? Your note said you would welcome the benefit of my wisdom, such as it is.’

‘Thank you for seeing me so promptly. I am grateful. Perhaps I could ask you a question to start with. How many statues do you own?’

‘How many statues? Venus with no clothes on? Julius Caesar wearing a garland on the day of his triumph, that sort of thing?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Well, I don’t really know. I’ve never actually counted them.’

‘Put it another way, how many houses do you own?’

‘You are being difficult this morning, Powerscourt. How many houses do I own? I don’t think I’ve ever counted them either, now I think about it.’

‘Try.’

Rosebery stared at a Winterhalter portrait of Queen Victoria and her children above his mantelpiece. ‘Twelve,’ he said finally, ‘that’s if you count the hunting lodge in Scotland and the villa in Italy.’

‘And how many of those houses have statues?’

‘Look here,’ said Rosebery, ‘why don’t you tell me the reason for these questions? I can’t believe you want to carry out an inventory of the statues in my houses, it would take too long. I’m not sure I could count the number of marble Greeks and Romans – well, they’re supposed to be Greeks and Romans – in my place in Italy. I picked them up for a song from a museum in Naples that was going bankrupt. There are loads and loads in Mentmore, as you well know. You’ve been to stay there plenty of times.’

Powerscourt told him about the missing Caryatid at the British Museum and the refusal to call in the police, about the various possible explanations for her disappearance, about his trip to Italy.

‘Tried to burn you out in Brindisi, did they? Thank your stars those boys don’t travel very much. I’m still not sure why you are asking me these questions, my friend. The British Museum has lost a Caryatid. I don’t own any Caryatids, more’s the pity, but I do have a large enough collection of Aphrodites, Artemises, Hephaistos with his fire, Hermes with his bloody messages like an ancient telegraph boy, innumerable Roman emperors ranging from the virtuous to the deranged. What, pray, is the connection?’

‘Rosebery, I’m sorry. I’ve explained things very badly. I’ve got so used to having conversations where I’m not allowed to mention the fact that the Caryatid is missing I end up tying myself in knots. What we don’t know, and would dearly like to find out, is how the fake Caryatid arrived at the British Museum and how the real one was spirited away. Precise removal and installation details if you like. Of the two porters closely involved in looking after her, one was run over by a tube train and the other was last heard of buying a ticket to Brindisi from where, as far as we can establish, he has not returned. Don’t look so impatient, I’m coming to the point. I would like to borrow some of your statues. I would like to place an advertisement in
The Times
and the
Morning Post
asking for expert removal firms to bid for the transfer of a number of statues from Mentmore to your house in Scotland.’

‘How many?’

‘Six would probably do it.’

‘Any particular size?’

‘Two or three should be about the same size as the Caryatid.’

‘From memory, I should say she was a little over seven feet tall, slightly larger than life size. Am I right?’

‘You are. Seven feet and six inches more or less. Marble.’

‘Marble I can certainly do. I have one or two famous pieces up there in Mentmore of about the right size. The Sounion Apollo from the late fifth century
BC
must be about the same age as the lady from the British Museum. I could throw in my famous bronze charioteer which I’ve always liked, and three or four more. But tell me this. Do you actually want me to move them?’

‘Certainly not. Just to advertise the fact that they are going to move house and invite bids for their transfer to Dalmeny.’

‘I shall speak to my man of business, Powerscourt. I shall do that this afternoon. I have never known you not to be in a hurry on one of your investigations. Perhaps we could place the advertisement the day after tomorrow? If you like, I could have a word with the editor of
The Times
about a brief news story in the paper. Famous Rosebery statues on the move, that sort of thing?’

‘Please do,’ said Powerscourt.

‘I would like to sit in on the interviews if I might. Add a touch of verisimilitude to the proceedings. I’d better bring my man of business too. Do you know, I’ve always been touched by the fact that people in your profession place great hope in the results of advertisements placed in the newspapers. It’s as if you all believe that the criminal classes, to a man, read
The Times
over breakfast every morning.’

Johnny Fitzgerald was tucked up in bed in a Powerscourt guest room, dressed in one of his host’s finest pairs of pyjamas. He had been taken ill on the journey home, reeling from frequent trips to the bathroom and gradually losing all colour, his face changing from a light brown to a chalky white and an emaciated pale yellow by the time they reached Victoria station. Since then the attacks had continued, his strength so weakened on the third day that he could no longer walk, only crawl. In his lucid moments he would complain, not about the disease, but about its causes.

‘Maybe it was those bloody prawns in Brindisi, Francis. I thought they tasted funny at the time. Or the squid. It looked pretty cross at being cooked and eaten, that squid. How about the oysters? I must have been mad, eating oysters in a place like that. Never again. You know those bloody people called vegetarians? Only eat carrots and broccoli God help them? I’m going to become a carnivore. Only meat. No more bloody fish for me.’

So Inspector Kingsley found that only Powerscourt and Lady Lucy were fit for active service on his evening visit to Markham Square. Powerscourt reported the fruits of his trip to Italy, the meeting with the Captain, the fire at the hotel, the disappearance of the other Greek porter. The Inspector was especially interested in the forthcoming advertisement about the removal of the Rosebery statues.

‘Excellent news,’ he said. ‘That could yield some important clues. There are a number of possible conclusions from your Italian affair, my lord. If the Captain knew you were coming, as you say, who told him? Is there a secret channel of communication between London and Brindisi? Then there’s the fire. I suspect the people who wanted to get rid of you simply hired another lot to burn the place down. They probably intended to frighten you rather than incinerate you. It was only when there weren’t any bodies found that they thought you’d been cremated in the Mazzini. We know very little about those local gangsters apart from a totally unpronounceable name, but I can’t see them stealing works of art from the British Museum.’

‘’Ndrangheta,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘that’s the name of those gangsters down there. The word means courage or loyalty.’

‘That’s very impressive. How on earth do you know that, Lucy?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘Rosebery told me last year, Francis. He was complaining about the thugs near Naples. They’re called the Camorra. They were asking him to pay protection money for his villa. He said they were as bad as the gangsters in Sicily. He said Calabria had another lot, the ‘Ndrangheta. It’s quite easy to pronounce once you’ve said it a few times.’ She smiled at her two gentlemen.

‘This has only just occurred to me, my lord.’ The Inspector was drinking a glass of chablis very slowly. ‘What kind of people would want to steal a Caryatid? You’d think they’d have some artistic inclinations even to know about the thing in the first place. Your average London criminal doesn’t know what or where the British Museum is, let alone what’s inside it. That might be one sort of person. But are they the same sort of citizens as the ones who push people in front of trains or burn down hotels in the middle of the night? I’m not so sure.’

Inspector Kingsley stopped suddenly and slapped himself violently on the knee.

‘I’m a bad policeman! Really bad! Rampant speculation! If there’s one thing the Metropolitan Police drum into their inspectors it’s that you shouldn’t speculate. You should never, they tell you over and over again, speculate in advance of the facts.’

‘Never mind,’ said Powerscourt cheerfully. ‘We forgive you. Nothing wrong with some well-founded speculation if you ask me. But still, what news of the museum?’

‘Precious few facts available there, my lord. I sent my sergeant to make enquiries about the late Kostas. He didn’t come up with anything we didn’t already know. I can’t be seen there as the author of a booklet for children one day and Inspector Kingsley the next. I do have one thing to report, my lord. The fire alarm is going to go off tomorrow morning, shortly after eleven o’clock. That, so far as we can work it out, seems to have been the time when the alarm went off before. Everybody should be out of the building for at least forty minutes. Neither Ragg nor Stanhope knows anything about it. I’ve brought along a few plans of the building, my lord. I hope you’ll be able to join us.’